


A Miner and a Thief

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Series: Prompts and AUs [4]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Prompt Response, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 16:37:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2117052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bofur was good at his job.  After all, anything worth doing is worth doing right, and if you also happen to really enjoy it well, that was all to the better.  Bofur was a dwarf who generally felt that enjoying life was the way to go.  </p><p>----<br/>Prompt from lynngryphon: Nori/Bofur, Nori is a miner, Bofur is a thief</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Miner and a Thief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lynngryphon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynngryphon/gifts).



> [Blanket Permission Statement](http://dragonsquill.tumblr.com/permission)

Bofur was good at his job. After all, anything worth doing is worth doing right, and if you also happen to really enjoy it well, that was all to the better. Bofur was a dwarf who generally felt that enjoying life was the way to go. 

His _modus operandi_ was simple. He worked out of various inns and pubs up and down the Blue Mountains, in conjunction with his cousin Bifur. They’d settle in, drawing a lot of attention between Bofur’s cheerful chatter and Bifur’s fierce looks (carefully rearranged for the occasion; Bifur’s favorite was the axe-to-the-head but really, that one was too memorable, even if they changed his wig and beard color; generally they went with something less obvious but just as distinctive, like a limp or a missing arm). Bofur would sing, Bifur would grunt, and the ale would flow. 

Once the ale had flowed long enough, well, Bifur would inevitably get his feelings hurt (fierce, delicate flower that he was). And then he’d start a fight. When Bifur started a fight, you could bet that everyone in the room would be involved somehow, from the witless dwarf who insulted him to the tired barmaid just walking in the door for her shift. Everyone one, that is, except his laughing, singing, storytelling companion, who would squeak and hide under a table for the duration.

By the time the ale wore off and the sun was rising, the distinctive troublemaker had long-since been thrown out and his singing companion dragged forth from his nest under the table, hungover and apologetic. “It’s a head injury, you know,” Bofur would say, twisting his hat in his hands, “he used to be such a gentle soul. It breaks my heart to see him like this.” And he would rest a palm over the beating of his heart, as an indication of his sincerity. So sincere were his apologies, and so wet his lovely eyes, and so sad his jaunty mustache, that he was always sent on his way with good will.

At which time he would meet Bifur a mile or so away, take off his pack, and peruse what he’d purloined while Bifur was wiping the floor with half a dozen dwarves.

See? Effective, safe, and fun: the best combination for any job.

And it all went without a hitch, until the day they hit an inn near the half-restored halls of Thorin Oakenshield and his wandering people. “It’s a waste,” Bifur insisted. “They don’t have two coins to rub together.” His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You’re just bored.”

“You never know,” Bofur argued. “There’s mostly miners in that inn. They could have pocketed something of interest.”

Bifur was doubtful and _maybe_ he was right, _maybe_ Bofur was a bit antsy and wanted something to do, a little time from his crowded home right next to his brother, sister-in-law, and noisy collection of nieces, some songs to sing and someone to cover his ale, but he gave in anyway. 

Miners all looked the same to Bofur. Dusty. Square. Either very serious or very loud, the second usually accompanied by Very Drunk. Despite years of hardship, this group was no different than the more established miners of Erid Luin. They started out in dusty groups, smelling of earth and stone, speaking quietly. When Bofur offered to sing, they requested a couple of traditional ballads, and a sharp-featured, green-eyed beauty (when he said they all looked the same, he didn’t mean he couldn’t spot an especially nice-looking one) with one of the most beautifully braided beards Bofur’d ever seen was the first to pay for Bofur’s drink in thanks. So lovely was this particular dwarf (though sandwiched between a silver haired elder and a red-headed younger who looked too different to be brothers but certainly acted like it) that Bofur nearly let the idea of robbing this group slide. Maybe they could just enjoy a night out.

But he forgot to stop gazing at Mr. Green Eyes long enough to tell Bifur to take the night off.

And he almost took a stein to the eye for his trouble.

Ah, well. Missed opportunities.

Bofur squeaked and hid under the table, shouted some apologies, threw a few apples at some dwarves who were trying to just sit back and watch, and then rolled expertly away and darted up the back stairs at exactly the right time. Thievery was a science and an art, and Bofur excelled at both aspects. After all, he’d been doing this for over a decade, and never once had he been-

“If you’re planning on robbing us, you won’t get much out of it.”

Bofur jumped (out of his skin and back in, by his estimation), and twisted as he landed, his special boots not making a sound. 

There, at the top of the stairs, was Mr. Green Eyes himself, one hip propped against the entranceway, arms crossed.

“We’ve barely been digging for a month,” Green Eyes said. He had a long, thick braid, dirty but sleekly plaited, three smaller braids all woven in – much more ostentatious than most miners, and it suited him. And oh, my, _ye_ s two of the braids were from his _eyebrows_ and didn’t that just bring those eyes out all the more?

Focus, Bofur.

“I don’t know what you’re-”

Green Eyes snorted. “If you _are_ going to rob someone, I suggest the second door on the right. That’s our foreman, and he’s been skimming some of our pay for himself.” 

Bofur’s eyes flickered to the door in question. “If I steal it, not that I would, mind you, because that is _illegal,_ you still wouldn’t have it.”

“No,” Green Eyes agreed. There was a smudge of soot across his quite attractive nose. “But he’d get in trouble for losing it, and he’d be watched more closely in the future.”

Bofur grinned. He knew it was a wide, playful grin that reached his eyes, and he knew it was generally considered contagious. He _liked_ this dwarf. Yes, indeed. “Well, if it’ll help you out, of course I’m not a thief but I could do my best . . .”

“Of course not,” Green Eyes said, and his smile was sly and clever and rather shiver-down-the-back inducing, really. “You’re obviously an upstanding citizen who survives on the ale people buy you for songs. But it would be doing me a favor.”

Bofur took a step closer. “And you might be . . . appreciative?” he asked, eyebrows rising with interest.

Green Eyes made an agreeable sort of noise and waved one hand, which was quite a bit cleaner than the rest of him. “I might be. You’d have to come back by in a few days to find out how appreciative.” 

Bofur bounced a bit on his toes. “Well, then,” he said cheerfully. 

“Well, then,” Green Eyes agreed with a flash of a sharp grin, and then he turned to leave.

Green Eyes’ foot was on the top step when Bofur said, “What’s your name?”

Green Eyes turned and ran his gaze, very deliberately, from the top of Bofur’s tousled head (soft pigtails against his shoulders) to the tips of his specialized boots, and said, “Ask me next time,” with a quirk of a smirk before he disappeared down the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to lynngryphon for this prompt, and for all her likes and kudos and generally being lovely. :)


End file.
